I describe my home port of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, as the unofficial waterway capital of the world. In fact, many of the boaters with whom I belly up to bars here are fair-weather cruisers like me, quite content hanging around the shallows, where boating tends to be more comfortable, safe and manageable for our children. 

Great pleasure can be had with that type of boating, which is vastly different from the bold offshore endeavors some of our readers undertake. I’m basically playing in the kiddie pool, which is fine, though sometimes it feels like a waste of a perfectly good ocean. Sure, I’ve also enjoyed every drip of some salty offshore legs. They’ve made for some of my most vivid and fulfilling memories on the water. Still, like many of you, I’ve yet to cross an ocean under sail, and a circumnavigation is more a fantasy than a reality. 

Where I’m lucky is that I can embrace my role of helping make the truly adventurous stories come to life within the pages of Cruising World. I can’t imagine the sense of pride and achievement (and relief) that comes with catching that first glimpse of land on the other side of an ocean, or from crossing one’s wake after circling the globe, but I can read and dream about it. 

Cruisers are an adventure-oriented breed. A lust for open water and a healthy respect for Mother Nature run thick in our DNA. Our happy place is any lat/lon where the sea reveals its serene beauty and formidable power. The allure of offshore sailing lies in its ability to transport us to uncharted waters, literally and metaphorically. As we cast off lines and bid farewell to familiar shores, we embark on a transformative journey where self-reliance and resilience become our trusted companions. Each voyage is a unique story, etched with the imprints of challenges overcome, camaraderie forged and dreams realized.

One of the most profound lessons we learn at sea is humility. The vastness of the ocean humbles us, reminding us of our insignificance in the grand scheme of nature. This humility is what drives us to become better sailors, better stewards of the sea. It fuels our thirst for knowledge and our relentless pursuit of skills that can mean the difference between life and death in the unpredictable theater of the deep.

In our sport, safety and preparedness are paramount. We pursue mastery of navigation, where technology and tradition coexist to guide us safely through the labyrinth of currents and weather patterns. We stress the importance of proper maintenance and equipment checks, where vigilant attention to the smallest details can prevent catastrophe. We also learn from stories of survival, where sailors confronted the harshest of conditions and emerged as stronger, wiser mariners. 

Safety at sea is also about the profound connection we share with our fellow sailors. The bonds formed at sea are unique, born out of shared challenges, triumphs and the understanding that we are one another’s lifelines. To that effect, I’m drawn to the stories told by fellow sailors who are out there—many of them way off the grid—facing those challenges and experiencing those triumphs every day. For a shining example of this spirit of camaraderie, look no further than Cruising Club of America member Steve Brown, a venerable skipper who knows a thing or two about heavy weather. Throughout his sailing career, Brown and his wife, Trish, took on a four-year circumnavigation aboard their Oyster 56, Curious, sailed a 30,000-mile circumnavigation of the Americas—sailing north from Camden, Maine, and then an east-to-west transit of the Northwest Passage—and spent more than his fair share of time in the Southern Ocean. 

Brown is up for debating the superlatively inhospitable places on Earth. Along the way, there’s been brash ice and icebergs, rogue waves and drogues, penguins and polar bears. He’s a sailor who’s had the real-life experience of switching from gale-force storm management to survival tactics after conditions transcend control—just the kind of expert you want to lean in to for heavy weather sailing strategies that may save your life. And the recent story about how he managed to lift up a battle-weary crew in the harshest of elements off Antarctica is a must-read.

If you’re like me, perhaps you’ve recently developed an itch to leave the shallows once more, to let your mind wander and wonder about aspiring to that next tier. I’m all for it but with one caveat: Know your limits. With great adventure comes great responsibility.

The post Leaving the Shallows appeared first on Cruising World.

In its annual affair, the Cruising Club of America has announced the recipients of five awards honoring sailors for completing circumnavigations and other rigorous bluewater passages, as well as for exemplary innovation, contribution to the sailing community, and service to the club itself. Headlining this year’s winners list is Kirsten Neuschäfer, who sailed into the record books in her victory in the 2022-23 Golden Globe solo round-the-world race. She became the first woman to complete the Golden Globe Race; the first woman to win it; the first South African sailor to win a nonstop, unassisted round-the-world event; and the first woman to win any round-the-world race, including solo and fully crewed races, nonstop or with stops. The Blue Water Medal winner and other awards for adventurous use of the seas has taken place nearly every year since the CCA was founded in 1923. Here are this year’s award recipients.    

Blue Water Medal: Kirsten Neuschäfer

Kirsten Neuschäfer of Port Elizabeth, South Africa, received the Blue Water Medal for 2023 in recognition of the tremendous effort, determination and skill she exhibited during her 235-day solo circumnavigation in Minnehaha, her Cape George 36 sailboat. Out of 17 starters, she was first among only three finishers of the Golden Globe Race, which is a singlehanded race around the world that limits competitors to using sailboats and technology available when the first race was held in 1968. As one example of her determination, while crossing the Southern Ocean, Neuschäfer spent several hours in the water below her boat, scraping sharp, speed-robbing barnacles off the bottom.   

The Blue Water Medal was originated by the founding members of the Cruising Club of America and first awarded to Alain J. Gerbault 100 years ago. It has been given almost every year since to “reward examples of meritorious seamanship and adventure upon the sea, displayed by amateur sailors of all nationalities…” 

In her comprehensive preparation for the race and determined persistence throughout the eight-month marathon, Neuschäfer clearly demonstrated she belongs on the distinguished list of previous medalists including the two previous Golden Globe winners Sir Robin Knox-Johnston and Jean-Luc Van Den Heede. She also takes her place alongside other solo circumnavigators including Sir Francis Chichester and Bernard Moitessier.      

Young Voyager Award: Max Campbell

The CCA named Max Campbell, of Falmouth, UK, as the recipient of the 2023 Young Voyager Award. The award recognizes “a young sailor who has made one or more exceptional voyages.” Campbell set sail eight years ago, at age 20, on a 22-foot wooden sailboat. Today, halfway around the world aboard his 37-foot Swan Elixir, he’s an accomplished sailor, writer and social media star. 

The CCA Young Voyager Award is a prestigious recognition that celebrates the spirit of adventure and seamanship. The award is historically given to young sailors who have demonstrated exceptional skills and courage in their voyages. Campbell’s early adventuring took him across the Atlantic twice, singlehanded, and on the first trip he had a galley fire, which he barely survived. In announcing this year’s winner, CCA Commodore Chris Otorowski said, “Max’s achievements are a perfect example of the spirit within the CCA where we find fulfillment in ‘exploring’ the oceans and our own inner limits aboard small boats at sea.”     

Diana Russell Award: Paul Bieker

The CCA named Paul G. Bieker, of Anacortes, Washington, as the recipient of the 2023 Diana Russell Award. The award goes to a club member in recognition of innovation in sailing design, methodology, education, training, safety and the adventurous use of the sea, with a focus on recipients whose accomplishments deserve recognition by the CCA. The award is named for one of the first three women to join the CCA—Diana Russell optimized designs under the IOR handicap rule for Sparkman & Stephens and later became president of the design think tank named WingSystems.   

Bieker is a yacht designer and boatbuilder with a degree in naval architecture. He has 30 boat designs to his credit starting with a series of immediately successful International 14 skiffs. His development of small hydrofoils for the 14s led to being recruited to work on foil design and structures in several America’s Cup campaigns optimizing IACC monohulls, and semi-foiling and foiling multihulls. His efforts helped win two America’s Cups (2010 and 2013), and he is now recognized as one of the world’s foremost foiling-boat designers. Bieker has developed everything from surfboard foils to International Moth and 14 classes, America’s Cup boat structures and foils, Sail GP’s 50-foot foiling cats, and foiling powerboat and foiling ferryboat projects.   

CCA Awards Chairman Steve James, said, “The CCA is proud to recognize our member, Paul Bieker. Paul’s foil designs and developments are the leading edge of our sport. With them he continues to advance sailing and the adventurous use of the sea in remarkable ways.”    

Far Horizons Award: Maxwell Fletcher

The CCA chose Maxwell A. Fletcher, of Orr’s Island, Maine, to be the winner of the club’s premier sailing award for a member for 2023: The Far Horizons Award recognizes the sailing achievements of a member who has embarked upon a cruise or series of cruises that demonstrate the broader objectives of the club including the adventurous use of the sea.   

Fletcher has been sailing with his family since childhood, so he had his eyes set on the horizon from a young age, and with his wife, Lynnie, he has made four Atlantic crossings and cruised throughout Europe. Among many adventurous passages, Fletcher made a 52-day double-handed voyage in 1985 aboard his Westsail 32 when he sailed eastward from New Zealand, around Cape Horn, to the Falkland Islands. The trip included surviving a knockdown well past horizontal and a 60-hour stretch of hand-steering under bare poles, covering 130 miles per day.      

Richard S. Nye Award: Ralph Naranjo

Ralph J. Naranjo, of Annapolis, Maryland, was selected as the recipient of the Richard S. Nye Award for 2023 in recognition of his outstanding contributions to the CCA and the international sailing community. The Nye Award, established in honor of the late CCA Commodore, is presented annually to an individual who has “brought distinction to the club by meritorious service, outstanding seamanship, outstanding performance in long distance cruising or racing, or statesmanship in affairs of international yachting…”   
Naranjo is well known in the yachting community for his safety-at-sea and seamanship knowledge, instruction and leadership. He was for many years the Vanderstar Chair, supervising the sailing program for the US Naval Academy midshipmen. He is also a past chair of US Sailing’s Safety and Seamanship Committee and has led countless safety-at-sea seminars. Naranjo earned his credentials in a variety of ways including sailing around the world (and writing a book about it: Wind Shadow West), and managing a full-service boatyard (another book titled Boatyards & Marinas followed). Naranjo’s best-known book, The Art of Seamanship, was published in 2014 and is a go-to reference on the collective skills required of bluewater sailors.

The post Kirsten Neuschäfer Named CCA 2023 Blue Water Medal Winner appeared first on Cruising World.

In 1986, David Robertson embarked on a journey to meet the demand for a practical, lightweight, hard-shell rowing dinghy that promised ease in launch and retrieval. Little did he know that the inaugural “Ultralite,” crafted for his family, would trigger a wave of interest leading to the establishment of Gig Harbor Boat Works. Over thirty-five years since the launch of the pioneering 8-foot Ultralite, Gig Harbor Boat Works has evolved, diversifying its offerings and necessitating a move to larger, modern facilities.  

The original Ultralite sparked such enthusiasm that, after showcasing it at the Seattle Boat Show, Robertson received over two dozen orders, officially marking the inception of Gig Harbor Boat Works. Today, the company boasts a diverse lineup of ten distinct boats, ranging from lightweight tenders to standalone rowing and sailing vessels, including the versatile 17-foot Salish Voyager designed for multi-purpose adventures.

To accommodate the growing popularity and diversity of their boats, Gig Harbor Boat Works is set to unveil a new 12,500 square-foot, state-of-the-art factory in Gig Harbor. This centralized production facility will bring together the entire production process, from lamination and assembly to administrative offices, ensuring seamless operations and enhanced efficiency.  

Falk Bock, production manager at Gig Harbor Boat Works, is optimistic about the move, stating, “With our production team working together in one location, we can build boats more efficiently without compromising the quality and attention to detail we are known for.”  

Gig Harbor Boat Works seamlessly melds traditional design with modern construction techniques, offering ten small craft models ranging from 8 to 17 feet in length. The boats, based on traditional working designs, can be customized to meet specific requirements, including gelcoat colors, keel strips, wood trim, sliding rowing seats, and more.

Upon the new factory’s operational launch, the original facility will transform into a customer-friendly showroom and delivery center. Katie Malik, general manager of Gig Harbor Boat Works and daughter of founder David Robertson, expresses excitement about the expansion, noting, “We are excited about the capabilities our new facility provides. Not only can we build more boats to keep up with growing demand, but by expanding our marketing efforts we can reach out to new folks that may not have known all that our boats have to offer.”

The post Gig Harbor Boat Works Expands Operations appeared first on Cruising World.

We’ve accumulated a sleigh full of wonderful holiday recipes through the years, courtesy of our ever-voyaging readers who, in the spirit of giving, have shared some their favorites with us along the way. Each of these recipes are 100 percent galley-friendly and guaranteed to elevate your crew’s Christmas spirit on board. We think you’ll agree that the only thing better than the dishes themselves are the stories behind how they came to be. Here are four festive galley-borne delights submitted from around the globe to try out this season, wherever you may roam.  

Caribbean Christmas Pudding

It was our first Christmas as cruisers, and it arrived rather unexpectedly. We’d been anchored for a couple of weeks on Picaroon, our Hardin Sea Wolf, at Norman Island in the British Virgin Islands. Without the traditional holiday cues—decorations, holiday parties and snow—we’d hardly noticed it was Christmas Eve when we were invited to join local cruisers for a potluck dinner the next day.  

“Make figgy pudding!” insisted Philip, my British husband. Figgy pudding is a fond nickname for what we Americans call plum pudding, and I know of it only from English Christmas carols and holiday stories. I’d obliged and made it for several holidays running, but now lacked key ingredients on the boat. Then it struck me: Plum pudding is pretty much a denser, richer version of Caribbean black cake, also traditionally served at Christmas. With a recipe for neither, and no Internet access, I decided to improvise. And use lots of rum, just in case. The final result was still warm when we dinghied over to Willie T’s bar for the cruisers’ Christmas potluck. It was such a hit, even the bar’s local staff asked for the recipe! —Heather Hamilton

Get the recipe here.

Jamaican Christmas Cocktail

All I was really after were some limes, but sometimes a simple errand can turn into an extended encounter—and a glimpse into local customs. I was in Port Antonio, a small city with a protected harbor at the foot of Jamaica’s Blue Mountains. One of the draws of the place—other than the excellent marina and the incredible natural beauty—was the opportunity to provision before my husband, Markus, and I set off for Panama’s San Blas islands on Namani, our Dufour 35. I was a woman on a mission, just breezing through—until friendly locals slowed me down. 

At a tiny fruit stand I met Sophia, who made her living selling just a smattering of goods: a little citrus, a few spices; enough to fill a large basket, no more. Squeezed in with quiet Sophia were two friends, outgoing Evette and kindly Andrea, 20-something girlfriends chatting away. To my delight, they immediately pulled me into their conversation. When my eye fell on the ginger—lovely fresh ginger, so different from the wizened old knobs found at the supermarket back home—the young women mentioned “sorrel drink,” Jamaica’s traditional Christmas brew. Seeing that I had no concept whatsoever of this fabulous concoction, the three launched into the recipe, each repeating it in her own words so it might penetrate my thick head. It took me about ten iterations to understand the word “sorrel,” the way it rolled off their Jamaican tongues and traveled into my uncomprehending American ear. Cereal? Sonnel? Sorrel! Finally, I understood! 

In Jamaica, sorrel is a type of hibiscus (hibiscus sabdariffa), and it’s distinctly different from the green similar to spinach called by the same name elsewhere. I asked where I might find it. Sophia glanced sideways at Evette, who looked suggestively at Andrea, who smiled widely. “I’ll get some!” she cried and disappeared into the market. Andrea eventually found some through a friend, and that afternoon, just as promised, Sophia presented me with a gallon-sized bag of wine-red Jamaican sorrel, at the bargain price of the equivalent of $1. 

That evening, I brewed up my first batch of Christmas drink, my ears ringing with instructions in melodic Jamaican voices while the scent of ginger and sorrel filled the galley. My husband sipped and heartily approved. In the end, we made several different batches until we had a recipe that worked as both a refreshing ice tea and as a cocktail. With Christmas right around the corner, I’d gained—thanks to my new friends in Port Antonio—not only a lovely memory of Jamaica but also a recipe for a drink perfect for a tropical holiday celebration. —Nadine Slavinski

Get the recipe here.

Christmas Chocolate Cake

I always remind my mother that cruisers have intentions, not plans. So, when our lack of intentions found us plying the exotic rivers and villages of Panama’s remote Darién province longer than we’d intended, I knew Christmas dinner wasn’t going to be “traditional.” Instead of eggnog, fruitcake, roast turkey, and pumpkin pie, it would be rum, fresh tropical fruit, grilled fish, and-what for dessert? No matter how far from home our more than seven years of cruising has taken us, my husband, Jim, and I have always managed to include a few traditional family favorites in our distant holiday meals. 

Christmas morning dawned silent and gray over our idyllic anchorage on the winding Río Sabana. I was sleeping in—giving Santa a little more time to find us—and Jim was reading in the cockpit of our Tayana 42 cutter, Asylum. He didn’t hear the approaching dugout until the old guy in the leaky little canoe held up a bucket and called out, “Camarones!” A bag of rice, some cooking oil, a couple of onions and a few stale trading cigarettes cinched the deal. Not exactly the same as cookies and milk disappearing from under the Christmas tree, but when I awoke to the news of several pounds of fresh shrimp on board, it was enough to make me believe in Santa Claus again. Christmas dinner was taking shape. 

The day before, we’d meandered up the river for about six miles in Nut Case, our well-worn dinghy, until the river forked and headed left to the village of Santa Fé, which we’d been told was about ten minutes away. Our excursion was part exploration and part foraging: to see what items on our modest Christmas-dinner shopping list the little tiendas might have, and to see if there might be for sale any of the hand-woven palm baskets for which Darién is famous. The narrowing river wound along for much more than ten minutes, and when we finally reached a landing, it wasn’t Santa Fé. Without enough water in the tidal creek to keep going, we left the dinghy on the gooey mud bank and hitched a ride in a car that epitomized the term rattletrap for the 15-minute, bone-jarring trip to the village. 

Santa Fé turned out to be a tropical Dodge City: Saddled horses waited patiently at hitching posts; shops and bars lined the wide, dusty main street; and tall fruit trees provided shade for men in spurs to swap their news. We spotted a small melo, where you can buy anything from Tang to baby chickens, and it didn’t disappoint. The tiny refrigerator yielded two huge surprises: eggnog and turkey hams. Stacked at the counter were little fruitcakes. After those amazing discoveries, I even checked the shelves for pumpkin-pie filling. But it didn’t matter that there was none. I had the recipe for another family favorite, one that always thrilled us as children when mom made it: a sinfully delicious chocolate cake that forms its own pudding-like frosting as it cooks. It was the perfect cap to a perfect Christmas for cruisers.
—Katie Coolbaugh

Get the recipe here.

Christmas Star Cookies

As active seasonal cruisers seeking winter warmth, usually in the Bahamas, my husband, Radd, and I have spent many winter holidays aboard our Island Packet 40, Sasha, far away from family and friends back home. We do miss the gatherings and traditions, but no matter where we are, we try to embrace new ways of celebrating—joining local celebrations or attending local services—while preserving a few tried-and-true traditions from our land life.   

Nassau, on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, was the backdrop for one of our most memorable holidays. We arrived a few days before Christmas, got settled, and then set out to explore. That day’s mission was to visit the Bacardi distillery. In all our cruising destinations, when venturing beyond walking distance of our harbor, we always use whatever public transportation is available (if any). Yes, we’re frugal cruisers, but public transport is a great way to interact with local people and absorb the culture. It’s always far more interesting than taking a taxi.   

In Nassau, we were lucky: There’s an extensive bus system. New Providence is a fairly large island; if you want to head away from Nassau harbor and the downtown area to the island’s south side (“over the hill,” as the locals say), you must hail a taxi, get a ride or take the bus.   After ensuring that we were going in the right direction, we asked our friendly bus driver if the Bacardi distillery was on the route.   

“No,” he replied, with a sorrowful head shake. Then, his face lit up with a wide smile. “But I’ll take you there.”   

And away we went, the only two riders on the bus. Once we got “over the hill,” we discovered a whole different world: homes with yards, small shopping centers, and no tourists. Eventually, we were out in the country. The driver took us right to the distillery’s entrance. We expressed our heartfelt thanks, and then he asked, “What time do you want me to pick you up?”   

The friendliness and courtesy of the Bahamian people are astounding. After a pleasant tour and, of course, a rum tasting, we emerged with several bottles of Bacardi to restock our near-empty liquor locker on board. Sure enough, our new friend retrieved us at the appointed hour, and back “over the hill” we went.  

Back on the boat, feeling festive, I formulated a plan. For as long as I can remember, my mom made special cookies for Christmas Eve. They were moist and creamy, with a hint of peanut butter perfectly complemented by chocolate centers. She always used packaged Brach’s Chocolate Stars, so we called them Star Cookies.  

Of course, she passed down the recipe, one she’d modified through trial and error. I began to gather ingredients on the boat and realized that I had everything but the chocolate stars. It didn’t matter: The cookies are delicious with any small, solid-chocolate candy pieces for the centers. You can use dark chocolate, milk chocolate, even white chocolate.   

When Christmas Eve arrived, we rode the city bus again, this time to attend a holiday service at the magnificent 300-year-old Christ Church Cathedral, a Nassau landmark. In yet another demonstration of Bahamian courtesy, a different driver apologized profusely for not being able to take us directly there but promised he’d get us within a short walk. We both wore wide smiles as easy-listening Christmas carols blared out of the bus speakers.   

Late that night, back aboard Sasha, we feasted on the cookies, along with eggnog spiced with fresh nutmeg and a healthy shot of our recently acquired rum. Turns out it’s possible to be home for the holidays after all. —Lorelei Johnson

Get the recipe here.

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible inclusion in Sailor & Galley. Tell us why it’s a favorite, and add a short description of your boat and where you cruise. Send it, along with high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com.

The post 4 Galley-Inspired Holiday Treats appeared first on Cruising World.

“Well, troops, I think we may have a problem up here,” my dad said, cinching his foulies a bit tighter around his wrists and neck. 

It was just after dawn when he peered down the hatch to my mom and me, deep in the warmth of the cozy salon. We were halfway down the Eastern Seaboard, heading to warm Florida waters.

Dad had hoped to cast off lines early for the next leg of adventure on our Hunter 31, Ragtime. Things obviously weren’t going according to plan. Twenty-one-year-old me sprang into action, joining him topside. 

Late the night before, we had puttered to the sleepy sea town of Coinjock, North Carolina, which had already shut down for the night. There wasn’t a soul about. And with no response to our calls to the marina, we decided to tie up to the public dock across the channel, fire up the gas stove to heat up a can of beef stew, and call it a night. 

As we lay nestled in our bunks, lulled by the gentle rocking of the waves, a chill settled upon Ragtime. By morning, temperatures had dropped to freezing, encasing our world in a frosty embrace. Winter had caught up with us, a fact that was finger-numbingly clear to my father as he assessed the situation. 

“It’s all frozen,” he said with a hint of a smile that he would flash my way anytime things were going sideways. If my dad has one talent when it comes to running a boat, it’s his ability to find humor in any stressful situation. 

“The dock lines, the hose—they’re frozen solid,” he said. “Here, see if you can make a dent in it. I’ll go down and put on a kettle. We’re going to need a warm cup of tea.” 

If you’ve never tried coiling a frozen dock line, I highly recommend giving it a whirl, if for no other reason than because an occasional dose of humility is good for the soul. We carefully tended to the frozen elements, coaxing life back into them, and finally managing to pry our lines and hose free from the dock. 

As we sailed farther south, the frost melted away, replaced by the gentle touch of a kinder climate. The sensation of thawing in the atmosphere and within ourselves reminded us of the transformative power of nature, where winter gives way to spring and hardships give way to growth.

Decades later, I don’t remember all the events of that expedition, but I’ll always recall our “Coinjock surprise” when it comes time to prepare for the annual migration south. This transit is a rite of passage for many boaters with home ports in the Northeast. If you’re among them, I imagine you have filed away several memorable moments of your own. If you’re considering undertaking the adventure in the future, author and photographer David Lyman’s “Three Ways South,” in which three veteran cruisers weigh in on three popular fall routes from the US East Coast to the islands, should be recommended reading.

As you prepare to leave familiar shores behind and set sail toward the southern horizon, remember to approach the journey with a blend of excitement, caution, and respect for the sea. Most of all, enjoy the ride. While reaching your destination is undoubtedly important, it’s also key to relish the journey itself. Take time to savor each moment, whether it’s the thrill of catching a favorable wind, witnessing a stunning sunset or forging lasting memories with your crew.

And by all means, embrace the unexpected. Unplanned moments often create the most enduring memories, especially the ones served with a side of frost.

The post Cool Memories of Sailing South appeared first on Cruising World.

As active seasonal ­cruisers seeking winter warmth, usually in the Bahamas, my husband, Radd, and I have spent many winter holidays aboard our Island Packet 40, Sasha, far away from family and friends back home. We do miss the gatherings and traditions, but no matter where we are, we try to embrace new ways of celebrating—joining local celebrations or attending local services—while preserving a few tried-and-true traditions from our land life. 

Nassau, on New Providence Island in the Bahamas, was the backdrop for one of our most memorable holidays. We arrived a few days before Christmas, got settled, and then set out to explore. That day’s mission was to visit the Bacardi distillery.

In all our cruising ­destinations, when venturing beyond walking distance of our harbor, we always use whatever public transportation is available (if any). Yes, we’re frugal cruisers, but public transport is a great way to interact with local people and absorb the culture. It’s always far more interesting than taking a taxi.

In Nassau, we were lucky: There’s an extensive bus system. New Providence is a fairly large island; if you want to head away from Nassau harbor and the downtown area to the island’s south side (“over the hill,” as the locals say), you must hail a taxi, get a ride or take the bus. 

After ensuring that we were going in the right direction, we asked our friendly bus driver if the Bacardi distillery was on the route. 

“No,” he replied, with a ­sorrowful head shake. Then, his face lit up with a wide smile. “But I’ll take you there.”

And away we went, the only two riders on the bus.

Once we got “over the hill,” we discovered a whole different world: homes with yards, small shopping centers, and no tourists. Eventually, we were out in the country. The driver took us right to the distillery’s entrance. We expressed our heartfelt thanks, and then he asked, “What time do you want me to pick you up?” 

The friendliness and ­courtesy of the Bahamian people are astounding.

After a pleasant tour and, of course, a rum tasting, we emerged with several bottles of Bacardi to restock our near-empty liquor locker on board. Sure enough, our new friend retrieved us at the ­appointed hour, and back “over the hill” we went.

Back on the boat, feeling festive, I formulated a plan. For as long as I can remember, my mom made special cookies for Christmas Eve. They were moist and creamy, with a hint of peanut butter perfectly ­complemented by chocolate centers. She always used packaged Brach’s Chocolate Stars, so we called them Star Cookies.

Of course, she passed down the recipe, one she’d modified through trial and error. I began to gather ingredients on the boat and realized that I had everything but the chocolate stars. It didn’t matter: The cookies are delicious with any small, solid-chocolate candy pieces for the centers. You can use dark chocolate, milk chocolate, even white chocolate.

When Christmas Eve arrived, we rode the city bus again, this time to attend a holiday service at the magnificent 300-year-old Christ Church Cathedral, a Nassau landmark. In yet another demonstration of Bahamian courtesy, a different driver apologized profusely for not being able to take us directly there but promised he’d get us within a short walk. We both wore wide smiles as easy-­listening Christmas carols blared out of the bus speakers. 

Late that night, back aboard Sasha, we feasted on the cookies, along with eggnog spiced with fresh nutmeg and a healthy shot of our recently acquired rum. Turns out it’s possible to be home for the holidays after all.

Star Cookies (yields 30 cookies)

Ingredients:

• 1¾ cups flour
• 1 tsp. baking soda
• ½ tsp. salt
• ¾ cup butter
• ¾ cup creamy peanut butter
• ½ cup sugar plus ½ cup more for rolling 
• ½ cup brown sugar
• 1 egg
• 1 tsp. vanilla
• About 30 small chocolate pieces
• Powdered sugar, for dusting (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Sift together flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside. 

Cream together butter, peanut butter, ½ cup sugar and ½ cup brown sugar. Add egg and vanilla. Beat well, then mix until consistency is like dough. (It will be slightly wet.) 

Line a cookie sheet with baking paper. With your hands, form the dough into 1½-inch balls (about the size of a ping pong ball), and roll each ball in the remaining ½ cup sugar. Place about 2 inches apart on cookie sheet. 

Bake for 8 minutes. Remove from the oven, place a chocolate piece on each cookie, and press firmly. Return the cookies to the oven and bake for 2 to 5 more minutes, or until the cookies are golden-brown and set. 

Let the cookies cool, and then sprinkle them with powdered sugar, especially if you miss snow. 

Prep time: 1 hour
Difficulty: Medium
Can be made: at anchor

Cook’s Note: 

Use a 1-tablespoon measuring spoon to scoop out raw cookie dough, then roll to shape into balls. A heaping tablespoon makes a perfect-size dough ball.

Do you have a favorite boat recipe? Send it to us for possible inclusion in Sailor & Galley. Tell us why it’s a favorite, and add a short description of your boat and where you cruise. Send it, along with high-resolution digital photos of you aboard your boat, to sailorandgalley@cruisingworld.com.

The post Sailor & Galley: Home for the Holidays appeared first on Cruising World.

Sailing south from Lefkas in the Greek Ionian Sea, I found a calm anchorage in a ­deserted cove on the east side of the hilly, wooded island of Ithaca. This was the home of Homer’s hero Odysseus, who was seeking to return home to his wife, Penelope. I, on the other hand, was seeking to get away from home and find a secure anchorage for the night. In deference to Odysseus, I kept the sails up in a desultory 10-knot breeze. I was always a sucker for the appearance of inauthentic antiquity. My Hanse 415 Adagio’s refrigeration, however, remained on with the Greek beer chilled. Odysseus would have been thrilled; the god Poseidon, probably not.

The next morning, I sat down in the cockpit to enjoy a freshly brewed cup of coffee. No sooner had I settled down than I heard the raucous noise of a high-speed powerboat. 

The only vessels that traveled that fast in the Mediterranean, apart from Italian speedboat cowboys, were the coast guard. Sure enough, the Hellenic Coast Guard roared into the bay and, slowing only a little, executed a tight U-turn around my boat. Their wake rocked Adagio violently. Annoyed, I nevertheless waved with what I hoped might be taken as a friendly but not overly familiar gesture. With no acknowledgment, and seemingly assured that there were no illegal migrants or unsanctioned toga parties aboard my ­Italian-flagged vessel, they sped off into the horizon. Paradise, or the illusion thereof, is invariably a fleeting phenomenon.

With no agenda or itinerary other than to get Adagio out of the water and fly home to Southern California in early November, I returned to my coffee and pondered the day. Avoid expectations, be open to what shows up, and let the day unfold, I reminded myself. The thought of calling my office or clients in the States did not even occur to me.

Conventional-cruising narratives had always told me that to genuinely experience a cruising lifestyle in locations such as the Mediterranean, I needed to fully drop out from my domesticated land life. This would include abandoning my ­business and the work I enjoyed, my friends, skiing, my home, and my physical-­fitness routine. For me, however, this posed what I initially saw as an insoluble conundrum: Did I really want to be that liberated?

As much as I was passionate about cruising, I also loved my lifestyle in Ventura, California, and, yes, my joint-custody dog, Murphy, from a recent divorce.

In 2008, at age 60, I came to the stark realization that my biggest enemy in life was time. This awareness led me to the conclusion that if I were going to live the balance of my life to its fullest, then I needed to start doing it now. I did not want to have any regrets, and I dreaded finding myself in a conversation with my orthopedist that began: “Well, Jim, you know you are at an age where you need to start slowing down. Have you considered taking up miniature golf?”

In the fall of that year, I chose to do the Baja Ha-Ha—the fun cruise from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico—with a friend. For the balance of the fall, winter and early spring, I mostly solo-sailed my 41-foot Wauquiez in the amazing Sea of Cortez.

I discovered that I thrived in solitude with total self-reliance, and I loved the ability to get away from it all, if only for two to three weeks at a time. Moving around the sea, I would berth my vessel in a secure marina for several weeks, and fly home to resume my work and land life in Ventura.

By fall 2015, I had spent two seasons in the Pacific Northwest, two seasons in Mexico, and eight months in the Hawaiian Islands following the Transpac race. Commuter cruising, as I came to call it, had become a chosen and well-trodden—albeit still adventuresome—lifestyle. I had become comfortable, if not confident, in my ability to schedule and meld my work, my team, and my cruising life. This skill allowed me to spend at least three to four months a year on the water.

In winter 2015-16, I looked for new commuter-cruising grounds. Cruising to the South Pacific did not appeal to me; where could I park the boat and return home? Nor did I relish long, solitary ocean passages. My limited bareboat experience in the Caribbean had left me with the impression—superficial, to be sure—that there was a repetitive sameness to these admittedly beautiful islands. The Mediterranean, on the other hand, held the allure of a rich history, varied cultures, big cities, quaint villages, and a friendly and engaging people. It also offered an established cruising infrastructure and secure marinas. I rationalized that if I continued working, I could afford to purchase a better boat in the Mediterranean.

I bought the three-year-old Adagio in spring 2016 just outside Genoa, Italy, and began the first of four seasons, each one around five months, in the Mediterranean. My initial goal was to cruise the entire Med in two years. I subsequently modified that to a more realistic four years.

Adapting my flexible itinerary to such constraints as the pesky 90-day EU visa and the reality that there is, at best, a Mediterranean cruising season of six to seven months, I soon developed a lifestyle that had me in the Med in early April and out of the water in early November. I’d return to California in July and August for a five- to six-week working hiatus. My time afloat in the Med became more like two- to three-month mini sabbaticals, and my working life adapted accordingly.

July and August in the Mediterranean were hot, crowded and expensive. Did I really want to be seen in trendy marinas in that heat while paying more than $400 a night for a mooring, if I could even get one? Cruising in the shoulder seasons, however, came with the challenge of more-variable weather. The sailor’s adage that the wind blows either too much or not at all in the Med I found to be especially affirmed in the spring and fall.

One of the pluses of cruising the Med is that it rarely required me as a solo cruiser to do any overnight sailing. And I was almost always within cellular range. Now, with devices such as Starlink and videoconferencing, conducting business afloat in the Mediterranean is no more difficult than doing it remotely in the US, aside from the time difference.

Like any cruising area, the Mediterranean does have its drawbacks and risks. There are some definite no-go areas, such as most of North Africa and the Middle East. And there is the ongoing illegal migrant crisis. 

And then there is the challenge of Med mooring singlehanded—especially in Greek and Turkish waters, where I needed to drop the anchor and back down, all while steering to hit my slot on the quay. It’s a good case for having three hands, or four if you have a bow thruster, which Adagio did not have. As with much of cruising, you adapt, though I would still embarrass myself from time to time.

The Mediterranean also offered an unexpected bonus: the opportunity to engage with a friendly, culturally diverse cruising community at anchor and in the marinas. Singlehanded cruisers are a bit of a rarity in the Med (I met only one other) and a curiosity. I got used to predictable questions of “How do you do it?” and “Don’t you get lonely?” Yes, I would think, that’s why I initiated this conversation with you. Some would speak of having met other solo sailors, invariably prefaced with the word “crazy,” as in, “He was a crazy Swede.” Perhaps I earned the moniker of “that crazy old American who ran and had a rowing machine on his boat.”

My advice to aspiring commuter cruisers is to start with a smaller boat and go for shorter durations. Learn, adapt and, in some cases, endure.

Most of us have multiple passions in life. For me, these became particularly hard to let go of the older I became. Is there a way for each of us to craft a ­cruising lifestyle that allows us to pursue all of these? I believe there is. Leap, as nature essayist John Burroughs put it, and the net will appear. 

Jim Eisenhart is the author of the ­forthcoming book Nomad Sailor: Adventures Commuter Cruising the Mediterranean. He currently owns a Moody DS41 and has been commuter-­cruising the US East Coast and Bahamas. 

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Your choice of which dinghy to carry aboard is pivotal to successful cruising. This is especially true if your cruising kitty is small. A good dinghy is a requirement for frugal cruising. 

Notice that I wrote carry aboard. I never tow a dinghy that I don’t want to lose. Why? Basic seamanship. Squalls approach fast. A swamped or flipped dinghy is a major problem offshore—for you and the environment. Painters can end up in the prop. Personal watercraft run over the tow lines. Towed dinghies get caught on navigational buoys, lobster pots and bridge fenders. 

Towing a tender is fraught with complications. Even a skillful boathandler can get into trouble approaching a slip while towing a dinghy. And being forced into your gyrating dinghy while at sea exposes you to extreme risk. Many a sailor has met Davy Jones just after pulling in their dinghy, casually hopping aboard, ambling aft, and leaning toward their outboard—just as the painter sharply takes up and catapults them over the outboard and into the water.

I’ve known three sailors who have ended up overboard this way. One was in the Lesser Antilles, without anyone in the crew even noticing. There’s one thing that every offshore sailor dreads: watching the transom recede as their vessel sails away. 

Yes, innocent choices can have severe consequences. And we haven’t even talked about the evil dinghies themselves. 

Offshore, dinghies can seem demoniacally possessed, ­especially while running downwind in heavy weather. They can hole your boat or wipe off its rudder or twist up the self-steering gear. I’ve even had dinghies pass me—then stop immediately ahead. Having a rigid-tender ­submarine zigzagging 50 feet beneath the surface like a berserk shark is no fun.  

One more tip: Never tow kids you love astern in the dinghy without an assigned watcher. Do this only with someone else’s bilge brats.

But seriously, the first ­question to think about when choosing a dinghy is: rigid or inflatable? 

I love to row, so we carried a Lawton-designed, fiberglass Graves tender for 15 years aboard Carlotta, our 36-foot Endurance ketch. Rowing is great exercise and a wonderful way to meet your fellow cruisers. It’s quiet and nonpolluting—two nice qualities if you reside on a warming planet like I do. 

If well-constructed, these dinghies are almost ­indestructible. At worst, you might injure one cosmetically, but it is almost impossible to destroy a Tortola-style dinghy, even in boisterous trade winds amid sharp reefs. 

Unfortunately, everything is a compromise. Well-constructed also means heavy. Of course, these heavy, rigid dinghies do more damage than the lighter, softer ones. So, I always tell my passengers to “keep your hands inside the dinghy.” They always comply until, suddenly, they don’t, and jam their hands between the surging dinghy and the immovable dock.

If you row a rigid tender, always remove the oar horns before coming alongside a ­vessel—especially if the ­graceful vessel has long ­overhangs. Dinghies yanked under a counter (or multihull wing) can do major ­damage in an instant during an ­unexpected wake. 

Ash oars are best. Oar leathers aren’t just about style; copper blade tips will greatly extend the oar’s life. Yes, the sailor and the length of the oar are related for best results. Of course, you should learn to feather your oars, and stow them in such a manner that they can’t be yanked into the water by the painter or float away if the dinghy is swamped. (Consider an oar lock through the thwart as well.)

Here’s a sad fact: If a dinghy rows well, it powers poorly. And vice versa. 

Stowage is another factor. Davits are cool on monohulls if you sail in, say, a swimming pool. It is best to stow a dinghy upside down on the foredeck while offshore in monohulls smaller than 70 feet long. We think of our foredeck dinghy as our backup life raft. And we put extra water and bulkier survival gear under it—in suitably tied-in watertight containers. 

Part of seamanship is to, again and again, prepare for the worst while expecting (and, hopefully, experiencing) the best. We’ve never used our dinghy as a life raft (or our life raft as a life raft, for that matter), which is exactly why we prepare it so diligently before each offshore passage. Just in case. 

In blue water, I carry a knife with me at all times (even sleeping), and I have dive knives made of 316 stainless steel in my cockpit and on my foredeck. Think about having to launch your dinghy while sinking, at night, naked and disoriented, after being hit by freighter. Those knives just might come in handy.

Currently, we have a 10.5-foot Caribe RIB for a tender, as we have for the past couple of circumnavigations. With a Tohatsu 9.8-­horsepower outboard (lighter than most and super dependable), the Caribe planes with both of us aboard, along with a case of beer and a full gas tank. This dinghy is small enough to hoist easily into our davits while coastal cruising in light-air venues such as Southeast Asia, or to bring on deck if we venture offshore. 

While initially expensive, the Caribes generally give us 12 years or two circumnavigations. This makes them quite affordable. How do we get twice the longevity that the average cruiser experiences? We always keep our tender protected by a Sunbrella cover, and we are careful where and for how long we leave it. 

The Achilles’ heel of modern inflatables isn’t abrasion; it’s puncture. Keep the tender away from sharp objects. I’ve poked a small hole from a nail sticking out of a dock, and my wife, Carolyn, barely touched a piling with a sole oyster that made a 6-foot slit in a ­dinghy’s starboard pontoon (that took three laborious attempts to fix). 

Sadly, some popular ­anchorages are regularly visited by organized dinghy thieves. An older guy, in his 20s, piles a bunch of local kids into his boat, gives them each a knife, and drops them all into the water. The kids cut the dinghy painters as they swim through the anchorage at 3 a.m. The older guy eventually collects all the drifting ­dinghies and swimming kids. 

We had our dinghy out of the water in South America when this happened in one anchorage, and were the only anchored cruisers with a dinghy left come morning. 

Now, about folding ­dinghies: They fold well. At least that’s what the guy with all the dripping cameras around his neck told me after I fished him out of the water off St. Barts. 

And while I love T-tops, ­center-consoles and fast boats, I keep my own dinghy as simple and light as possible. Sadly, too heavy and too light are both problems. When I had a lightweight 2-horsepower outboard on my inflatable, it would flip so often that I painted the outboard with antifouling inside the case. (To avoid this problem, pull the transom plug at anchor during a sudden squall. The inflatable dinghy won’t sink and will never flip, even in a gale.)

Another bonus of inflatables is that other yachties don’t cringe like they do if you approach their boat in a rigid tender, especially one lacking a soft rub rail. 

I was amazed in Western Samoa to have a fellow Virgin Islander come up and rail-cling while his heavy wooden tender banged repeatedly into my delicate gelcoat. When I said something like, “Careful, don’t allow your dinghy to hit my boat,” he just grinned, took another swig of his bottle of rum, and replied: “Don’t worry, Fatty. My rail is air-dried oak and through-bolted. Not a problem.”

Sure, for him.

One of the reasons we love our inflatable so much is because it saves us money while providing us with so much peace and tranquility. Marinas can be expensive, noisy and hot, so we almost never tie up. However, the anchorage closest to a marina is often also crowded. Our lightweight dinghy and its powerful engine allow us to anchor amid nature a couple of miles away, and yet have all the benefits of civilization when we want and need them. (We also have good ground tackle, a stout companionway locking system, and a loud burglar-alarm system on the main boat.)

It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper, and sail back again without raising a sweat.

Sailing tenders are another option, especially if you spend four months in deserted Chagos, as we did. It’s great to be able to sail a couple of miles to the inlet, catch a hundred pounds of grouper and snapper to share with the entire anchorage, and sail back again without raising a sweat. Or making noise. Or polluting in a pristine paradise. 

Alas, everything is a compromise. Rigs, a rudder, sails, and centerboards all take up room and cost money. I love sailing tenders dearly, but the confusion and weight of the gear doesn’t help you while passagemaking. Having clean, clear decks is a safety advantage offshore, especially in a breeze. 

On the plus side, there’s no denying how romantic sailing tenders are. If we have long-term guests aboard, we often disappear for an hour or two because (we tell them) the wind dropped on the other side of the island.

One more thing: If you haul out your dinghy each evening, as we do, it probably will never be stolen or acquire too much growth. However, it you leave it in the water, the clingy barnacles will certainly discover it. Sure, you can paint it with antifouling, but then, on passage, you, your sails and your sheets will gradually turn blue (as happened to us). 

If you don’t paint it, you’ll have to take it to the beach regularly, empty it, remove the outboard, and flip the dinghy over to scrape it. That’s not the bad part; the bad part is that it is easy to damage the RIB’s fabric while cleaning it. We’ve learned this the expensive way. Thus, we hoist at sundown, a nightly ritual in my life for 63 years now. 

The bottom line is that a proper tender, properly tended to, will save you money and time as it brings you joy. Seamanship is important. The wrong tender in the wrong sea at the wrong time at the wrong end of a tow rope can cost a life.

The choice is yours.

The post On Watch: Tender Feelings appeared first on Cruising World.

In the early days, when I thought about what it might be like cruising and home-schooling, the vision went something like this:

Warm, dappled morning light streaming in through the open companionway, my daughters working on journal entries. Me making coffee while gathering items for our morning science lesson, which would, of course, tie into that day’s reading assignment. My husband, Green, working on route-planning and navigation exercises over breakfast. After a snorkeling break (with fish and coral identification, naturally), the girls would do math without complaining, and then we’d hunt for shells, which we would somehow turn into an art project. Visits to town would be prefaced by a study of the area’s history. 

There would be lesson plans. We would be organized. Our curriculum would be exciting and relevant, and meet all of the standards from back home. The kids would be engaged and eager to learn.

This was, obviously, a fantasy.

When an old friend reached out recently with questions about home-schooling while cruising, I hesitated to answer—even after a couple of winters sailing south with the kids to the Bahamas. 

Why did I go silent? Because, while some of our days had included some of the elements I’d envisioned, most days saw the kids begrudgingly sitting at the salon table doing some pages in workbooks, with me imploring them to “get school done” so we could go ashore. If we were underway, forget about it. School took a backseat. I was not quite the teacher I had hoped to be—nor was I terribly creative or organized. I worried that they’d be behind their peers, and that I was failing to embrace the opportunities around us. 

Looking for advice that I could pass on to my friend, I reached out to a few veteran cruisers who had many years of “boat-schooling” in their wake. What I discovered was surprising and comforting: What they envisioned wasn’t always what ended up working either, and doubts were common.

What Worked, What Didn’t

When Behan Gifford and her husband, Jamie, set out cruising with their three kids—who were entering preschool, first and fourth grades—they knew they wanted to “de-school.” This is a length of time with less, if any, focus on formal schoolwork. It’s sort of an ease in to home-schooling where you learn what the kids’ natural areas of interest are.

“The idea of de-schooling is that we, parents and kids alike, need time to reset on how learning will happen on board,” Behan Gifford says. “Home-schooling on board doesn’t have to include the stress, the approach or many other aspects of mainstream school.”

It’s one of several approaches that I considered for our girls, Caitlin and Juliana, who were in sixth and first grades when we set out aboard Lyra, our family’s Reliance 44 ketch. Our approach ended up being eclectic. I sort of based our materials on where they had left off with their classes, with the thought that we would fill in with lessons that I made up, related to our surroundings. 

Other options could have been a “school-in-a-box” approach where you order a complete grade-level curriculum, and oftentimes have remote support from a teacher or adviser; an online school where kids log in and do activities each day; or unschooling, which lets the kids follow what interests them. 

The Gifford family, after de-­schooling with their kids, went with a sort of unschooling approach. “Natural learning felt like a natural fit,” Gifford says. “We stuffed the boat with primary resources, from field guides to an encyclopedia set to books about the places we’d be exploring together, and let it flow. There were also standard-issue grade-level workbooks, because if a kid wanted to do that, well, then, that’s what they did. Opportunities to learn were everywhere.”

Erin Carey and her family also had a pretty laid-back approach at the beginning. The family left to go cruising in February 2018 when the kids were 3, 7 and 8, and they cruised the Caribbean for two years before crossing the Atlantic. 

“While we thought school was ­important, we were pretty relaxed and open to finding new ways for the kids to learn,” Carey says. “I decided we didn’t want the school-in-a-box approach because we didn’t want to have to send results home or order books via [snail mail]. We also didn’t want to have to rely on the internet. Our approach completely changed after a couple of years.” 

The Eccles family, whose daughters were 10 and 12 when they set out on the Oyster World Rally in September 2021, began with a more structured approach. 

“When we first left Monaco, we planned for the girls to use a full curriculum from Laurel Springs,” Kate Eccles says. “They offered us a more traditional textbook option rather than online schooling because we knew that Wi-Fi and data would be a challenge, particularly when on passage for weeks at a time. Unfortunately, what we didn’t realize until the girls actually started the schooling was that at the end of every lesson, they were required to do an online test, which of course they were unable to do.”

The Reality

Carey says that she needed to adjust her schooling to reality: “I realized that I was not really creative enough or patient enough to make up lessons each day. I also hated wondering if I was doing enough.”

After a cruising pause during the pandemic, the family continued on to the Mediterranean, where they cruised for almost two years. “For the second time around, we went with the complete opposite kind of curriculum,” Carey says. “We signed up to an online school called Acellus. The kids simply had to open their computers and log in, then watch videos and answer questions based on those videos. In theory, it sounded amazing. It took all of the teaching out of the equation for us, and we never had to worry if they were working at the right grade level.”

This went OK for about six to eight months, and then, the younger kids got bored. The oldest son continued with Acellus, and the family added writing assignments because they felt that the program lacked in that area. They moved the two younger kids into a program called My Homeschool, a curriculum that emphasizes high-quality literature. 

Aboard Lyra, our girls kept up with their workbooks, and I kept my fingers crossed that they would fit in with their classmates once we returned to land. A difference in our situation compared with the other families is that our timeline was much shorter. Our girls wouldn’t get too far off course, but we never really were able to settle into a good rhythm with home-schooling. 

Eccles’ family came to a similar conclusion. “A huge part of the Oyster World Rally for us as parents was that we would expose our children to alternative forms of learning,” she says. “The bulk of our days included learning to sail, to log coordinates on charts, and participate in SSB calls.” 

Her kids also learned to prepare meals, organize provisions, and live in a ­confined space. Patience and hard work were emphasized, and they developed a sense of responsibility by being on time for their watches. 

“They experienced firsthand learning about wildlife, not only in the oceans, but also on land all around the world, from the Galapagos to the Gili islands, and were exposed to an array of different cultures and religions,” she says. “Sure, we knew that the girls possibly might return to regular life weaker in certain areas of the curriculum, however, we felt that the rally really was an education in itself and an experience of a lifetime.”

Lessons Learned

There is no “best” way to home-school on board. What will work for your family might look completely different from the family down the dock, and you will likely go through times when you doubt yourself. 

“Know that the first steps into home-schooling will be uncomfortable, and the approach you take probably won’t work out quite the way you imagined it,” Gifford says. “That’s OK. Reset, and try again. You can always stop, breathe, and reset from the place you find yourself. Most cruising families do this—sometimes a few times—to different degrees. It’s a lot of pressure felt by parents. It’s often not pretty to navigate the delicate roles of parent and teacher or learning facilitator, but we have yet to see dismal failures as long as parents are keeping minds and hearts open to continue trying until they land on the right balance for their kids and themselves.”

Eccles agrees: “Get the kids reading as much as possible. If you can, get them used to using e-readers because this will save a lot of time trying to find bookstores as you go around the world.” 

Also try to see everything that you’re doing as a learning or teaching ­opportunity, she says, and enjoy the adventure. 

Things to Consider

The pandemic changed many aspects of daily life, especially school. “Home-schooling has blossomed,” said Melissa Robb, home-school advocate for ENRICHri, a Rhode Island home-school support group. “It was already on the rise, steadily, across the country, really, across the world, but throw in a pandemic along with a plethora of social issues, and it skyrocketed. With the higher numbers comes more resources in the marketplace and locally via libraries, businesses and museums.” 

This availability of resources has been a game-changer for cruising families, but the options can be overwhelming. Before committing to a full curriculum, ask if your kids can try a few lessons to make sure it’s a good fit. Also keep in mind that many of the ­online-learning options require a robust internet connection (and unlimited data), and some courses have a set class schedule. This could all work well if you’re at a dock with great Wi-Fi, but less so if you’re actively cruising.

Resources include the Kids4Sail Facebook group, made up of cruising families around the world. It has a frequently updated spreadsheet with common curricula that cruising ­families are using.

World Book has textbooks and workbooks in all subject areas, as well as digital resources.

Outschool can help with everything from a one-time drawing class to weekly Spanish lessons. Because these classes are over video, Outschool requires high-speed internet access.

Voyaging With Kids by Behan Gifford, Sara Dawn Johnson and Michael Robertson (available in print and e-book) is a treasure trove of information for any family considering going cruising.

Lesson Plans Ahoy by Nadine Slavinski, third edition (available in print and e-book) covers a variety of subjects and can be adapted for kids ages 4 through 12. 

Jennifer Brett is a CW editor-at-large.

The post Home-Schooling Aboard appeared first on Cruising World.

Eibbor and Knarf’s parents were kidnapped by Frost Giants. The boys desperately needed help. Scooter Squirrel raced to Winston Woodchuck, who dived into his burrow, frantically digging until he reached the tunnels of the Dwarves. They summoned Frey, who came with his longship, Skidbladnir, and took the boys to Asgard to plead their case to Odin. Skidbladnir was enchanted so that, among other magical traits, it always had fair winds and got where it needed to go. 

Such were the bedtime stories Dad told my brother, Frank, and me more than 60 years ago in the wild hills of West Bolton, Vermont, overlooking Lake Champlain. Despite the US Navy being born on Lake Champlain and the famous Capt. Phillips living a few miles from our house, Vermont is the only landlocked state in New England, so it might not seem an apt setting for nautical lore and traditions. However, a few years after my grandfather returned from World War II, he and my then-preteen ­father built a 16-foot Moth and ignited an obsession in Dad for sailboats. He found plans for a 26-foot ketch that became his lifelong white whale. I grew up with those plans and, under Dad’s tutelage, learned almost every rig that had sailed for the past thousand years by copying illustrations in The Book of Old Ships by Henry B. Culver and Gordon Grant.

 My initial 20 or so were canoes. I bought my first canoe with my paper-route money at age 11 and got a Gunter-rig sailing kit. That Grumman canoe still hangs in the barn in the winter, but in 55 years, it has never had a name. My first experience with naming a boat was as a teenager, when a 16-foot Rocket-class sloop that had been in a chicken coop for 25 years was donated to our Explorer post. We restored her and sailed the chickens—I mean the dickens—out of her on Lake Champlain. Our best adolescent workmanship notwithstanding, her seams could work the caulking in a chop, and we named her Kon Liki. It was 39 years before I named a second boat.

On the cusp of October 2009, another artist, Cole Johnson, and I stood at the lip of the 1,200-foot canyon of Canada’s Kogaluk River (“Little River” in Inuktitut) with our canoe in the howling wilderness of the Labrador Barrenlands. A river we’d been on nine days earlier had wandered into a boulder garden and had not come out, so we struck out overland, north to the Kogaluk, hoping that it would have water. As we stood, buffeted by the gale winds of the Barrens, it was a profound relief and joy to look down to the sparkling river far below. At that moment, a feeling welled up to name our silent companion, the stalwart canoe that would, days later, on the Labrador Sea, save our lives. The name came to me instantly, Bonnie, my then girlfriend, now wife (it was also, by chance, Cole’s mother’s name), steadfast and true no matter the challenge. That was one of only two canoes I have ever named. 

After COVID struck and closed Canada, I was stuck in Vermont, so I hiked the 273-mile Long Trail end to end as a painting trip. The paintings from the hike sold out so, in 2021, I decided to do the same thing on Lake Champlain. But I needed a bigger boat. I found a wooden, double-ended, 20-foot pocket cruiser (appropriately for my transition back to sail, a “canoe yawl”) at the Lake Champlain Maritime Museum. It was essentially a nice trailer with a free boat on it. Bonnie and I spent two months restoring that boat. I’d planned to spend at least six weeks aboard, so the boat needed a name. We bandied several about as we sanded the boat to bare wood, sealed the hull, and built accommodations in the cabin. Years ago, I had toured on the national art show circuit in a 15-passenger Dodge van dubbed the Artful Dodger. This boat was cute and a bit plump, but well-rounded with lovely lines. As a sleek creature of the water and my nascent floating studio, it almost named itself the Artful Otter.

The voyage of the Artful Otter was a wonderful experience during which I named my second canoe, a tubby 11-foot bright-green cutie that Bonnie had owned since childhood. That was the canoe that helped bring us together (another story), and I used it as Artful Otter’s tender. With the tiny green boat trailing lightly behind on the waves, its name became obvious: Leaflet.

The voyage raised funds for charities and made the artists some money. Expanding from the idea of the Long Trail trip, I involved other artists who all wanted to continue the project, so we needed a yet bigger boat. I cruised the yacht websites looking for an affordable, artistic vessel. That turned out to be a tall order. Brother Frank, now a retired US Coast Guard captain, steered me away from a couple of old wooden beauties that appealed to the artist in me but would have probably sunk—my plans, anyway. 

Then, I found it: a wooden, 1962 Aries 32 ketch in Chester, Nova Scotia. A double-ender like Artful Otter, this boat underwent a marine survey that impressed even sea dog Frank. And I could afford it by selling Artful Otter. That was a ­painful thought. Nonetheless, I brought the printout of the listing down to dinner, the one meal that Dad, Bonnie and I share every day.

Dad is an old-time Vermonter with Yankee frugality deeply ingrained, so I never saw his reaction coming. He had gotten his teenage ketch plans out while Bonnie and I restored Artful Otter, but presumably the enormity of the project hit, and he had not proceeded beyond that. Looking at the ­photos of this ketch at dinner, though, he set his jaw and quietly said, “That’s my boat.”

“Huh?” I started to explain the plan when he cut me off. 

“Don’t sell the Otter. I’ll buy this boat,” he said. 

And that was that. I suspect that, at age 90, he was realizing that lifelong dreams needed to come to reality ASAP, and he would not discuss it. 

Chester, Nova Scotia, is at least a 1,200-mile sail back to Vermont. After dinner, Bonnie upped the ante with the idea of Frank and me taking Dad on a bucket-list trip of a lifetime by sailing home with him in the ketch. He will be 91 when we get underway in July, but his mind is sound, and he is healthy and strong. Frank jumped aboard immediately, and I’ve never seen Dad so enthused.

Rub-a-dub-dub, three old men in a…well, the boat needed a name. Yet apart from a brief inspection in a heavy snowstorm, I had no physical connection with the boat. My names for other boats had been bestowed organically, but this time, it seemed, we might need to dream up one out of thin air. 

Artful Otter II, the working name during the search, was jettisoned ­instantly, closely followed by my overlong fixation with plays on art and ­ketches such as Sketchy Otter, Art S’Ketch, ­Sketch-A-Ketch, CanUS’Ketch (Bonnie is Canadian) and other such ideas. Sea dog Frank thought my Bonnie Pearl was a wonderfully nautical play on Captain Jack Sparrow’s Black Pearl and Bonnie. Dad was politely nonplussed. 

Then, it hit me. The three of us setting off on an adventure: Eibbor and Knarf stories, Scooter Squirrel, the Dwarves, the Norse gods, and a magic longship, like a double-ender ketch. 

As is true of many Germanic-language names, it is not pretty to an American (or Canadian) ear, but it resonates with the three of us 60 years later: Skidbladnir.

Hailing from Lake Champlain, wildlife artist, naturalist, and outdoorsman Rob Mullen operates out of his floating studio, the canoe-yawl Artful Otter. Lately, his sailing and painting grounds have grown to include the 1962 wooden Aries 32 ketch Skidbladnir.

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